


The Eyes of the Old Gods

by aria0205



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, Dark, F/M, book canon, dubcon-ish, femdom-ish, fill for kink meme, moody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aria0205/pseuds/aria0205
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill, AU on book canon, follows pre-series wild dragon theories, I don't even know</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eyes of the Old Gods

The great oaks framed a somber silence as Tyrion walked through the godswood, the pine needles cracking under his feet loud in the wood’s stillness. The years hadn't made the thick atmosphere of Wintefell’s godswoods any more bearable to him. Even as he knew that, in theory, the north was now as hospitable as it ever would be, considering he'd brought back one of its lost daughters, astride a dragon and with a formidable army at his back, no less. If anything, the north had always respected the dragons.

He wondered if that explained the bond that formed between Rhaegal and Sansa. The dragon had been taken with her since they'd found her at the Eyrie. As for Sansa, Tyrion had expected her to have been as terrified as all of Westeros. Her first glimpse of him came, after all, when Rhaegal had just made a mess out of the greedy jailer. Tyrion had expected her to have screamed or fainted in horror, this Sansa had simply stared at the dragon in wonder before extending a dainty, blood-speckled hand to stroke it. The image made still him uneasy. 

For all the changes he’d observed after her rescue, subtle signs that made him wonder at the rumors, it seemed that Sansa had at least kept some of her faith. The thought was comforting even as he walked through the unwelcoming pines, providing some continuity between the stoic child bride that had been foisted on him and the hollow-eyed stranger they’d taken out of the sky cells. 

Tyrion came to the small clearing where the heart tree stood, carved eyes staring out eerily above a black pool from where steam misted up. Rhaegal lay across from it, green and bronze scales close to blending with the undergrowth. The dragon was not as large as those described by the tales, being quite young yet, but it was just as fearsome.

His head lifted a bit as Tyrion approached. 

"Sansa?" Tyrion called out, immediately feeling as if he'd violated some code of silence.

He ambled his way over to Rhaegal and the dragon lowered its head to be petted. Tyrion humored him before darting a couple of steps further. He was about to call again, when Sansa surfaced from the pool making him jump back, startled. Rhaegal puffed his annoyance at the sudden movement, unfurling his yellow-orange wings, a moment later he was gone. But not too far that he wouldn’t hear if summoned. Of his Queen’s three, he proved the most docile by far.

"You surprised me," Tyrion said, somewhat embarrassed. Sansa looked on with her impassive blue eyes, Whole castles drowned in fire under Rhaegal's breath at his command and she still had the power to unsettle him, an insidious little voice whispered. 

"I am sorry, my lord." The water swished around her bare shoulders and he frowned. Bathing with her maids in a stream while they were traveling was one thing. Bathing in the godswood alone where she could be seen was another. But maybe she'd counted on Rhaegal to keep everyone else out. Everyone except him. Moments like these made him feel indeed like half a man.

He sighed and continued without preamble. "I come to take my leave, Lady. We are departing."

Sansa blinked. "Departing?"

"I am to lead Queen Daenery's army to attend to the Wall and beyond it."

Sansa's expression didn't change, but he continued. "I will leave Ordinah and Perrh to stay with you. I have summoned the High Septon from King's Landing. He is to complete an annulment as soon as it is safe to travel and free you from this sham of a marriage. That done, you should be able to choose your consort among the lords that remain loyal to your family."

"My lord--"

He interrupted her curtly. "As difficult as it is, I beg you to consider another marriage. For all the power the Queen commands, there's no telling the future.”

"I hold no wish to marry again," she stated matter-of-factly, as if she were sitting across from him in the dining hall dressed in all her royal finery and not naked in the hot spring like a common girl. 

"I know." The objection didn’t surprise him. He'd never asked about her time at the Eyrie with Littlefinger. He told himself it was to protect her honor. There were rumors, naturally, and the woman they'd taken out of the cells was virtually unrecognizable as Sansa Stark. (If the whispers were to be believed she wasn’t. Alayne Stone. Madwoman. Petyr Baelish had surely not deserved this end. From his own daughter no less. ) Bronn had relished recounting every obviously exaggerated detail of the idle tales.

Tyrion knew enough to put the larger pieces together and had left it at that. "Clearly, it is not within my power to compel you."

She lowered her eyes in what he was almost certain was a calculated gesture. "Have I been such a burden on my lord that he should leave me behind?" 

(“Hard to be a lady with all that rage.” Bronn laughed. “This one would sleep with knives under her pillow if she could, look at her eyes. I’d keep my distance. ”) Tyrion thought of his sister, but the comparison disturbed him too much to contemplate for long.

"I thought you had seen enough of battlefields and death to last a lifetime." He'd annul the marriage a thousand times rather than her be anywhere the Others that were even now looking for weaknesses in the Wall. "This life is not fit for you." 

"It fits me better than any court." 

"It won't fit better than the court that you rule over." 

"Years have passed since I was part of court. I wouldn’t know how to rule."

"That is why I am leaving Ordinah and Perrh, they are more than able counselors and will not lead you astray. They were among Queen Daenerys most trusted advisors, and will serve you well."

"Won't you be in need of them my lord?"

"I am on my way to meet with Jon Snow. I trust between he and I, we will manage." 

"The men of the north do not soon forget. The Stark line is gone."

He paused, but thought her vehemence demanded bluntness. "The High Septon will make clear that your maidenhead is still intact.”

Color had risen across her cheeks and Tyrion wondered if it was embarrassment or the heat of the pool. “You’re certain,” she retorted acidly. He knew she was childishly courting his discomfort as she lifted herself out of the pool and he turned his face away, irritated.

“I am,” he shot back. “The letter I sent him was most persuasive. And regardless of the Stark line, you do have your claim. It shouldn’t be difficult to make another marriage.” 

He read an accusatory undertone to her words. "As my lord says." 

Tyrion brought a hand to rub his forehead, head still turned from her. An image of Lisa Tully, fickle and mad, flashed across his mind. "What would you have me do, Sansa?"

And he really should turn and leave. Proximity to Sansa was a festering wound, all the better to put an end to it quick, bitter as it might be. But fool he continued to be, he stood stupidly waiting. (For what? Gratitude? Pathetic. )

"You once asked me to tell you of the old gods," he heard her say. 

Tyrion turned briefly to her, taken back by the non sequitor and averted his eyes once more at her nakedness. "Dress quickly before the wind turns you into ice, wife mine," he said bitterly. 

She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I said there were no devotions or songs."

"Only trees," he responded. "And prayers. I remember." That night he'd told her of his brother's death.

“I don’t pray anymore. I suppose, there’s only trees.”

He set his jaw, if she was to see him off with recriminations, then so be it.

"Is it for my shame or yours that you don’t look?" The question took him by surprise and he did look at her then. Sansa sat beside the pool on the warm stones, the steam misting around her, scarcely five steps away. All long limbs and smooth skin, but all that came over him was a shocking sense of relief. Littlefinger had left no visible marks. A knot of anger, pity and disgust had formed at the pit of his stomach. Both, he thought to himself, but didn’t dare say it out loud.

He approached her, cursing the jumble of thoughts that made his steps clumsier than usual. He reached out a hand, as he had done many times before. It was time to end this. “I beg my lady’s favor in the coming battle.”

Wordlessly, she extended her hand in response. Surely, the time after the Eyrie must have been a kindness for all its discomforts. But looking at her, he didn’t know for certain, there was nothing he could read on her face, not even the artifice. If he could just _know_. He felt petty at even the thought. None of it could even begin to atone for what his family had done. The reality was a hand around his throat. 

This was goodbye, he reminded himself harshly. He would rather remember her forever out of reach than with recrimination in her eyes.

Sansa’s hand was wet atop his and her eyes had grown strangely soft, he thought he might be imagining it out of stupid longing, because her voice was flat when she said, “My favor and my hopes for your safe return.” 

Tyrion bowed his head, bringing her hand to his lips. 

Sansa turned her head to look up at the heart tree for a moment and he released her hand. As if cold, she turned back, wrapping her arms around herself. He noticed her dress folded beside a gnarled root and went towards it, sparing a backwards glance at the lovely curve of her back. 

“The old gods see and know everything,” he heard her murmur. Tyrion stifled a chill, offering her the dress.

“My lady, your clothes. Sansa—“

And suddenly her hands were at the fastenings of his breeches. He skittered away, shocked, and tripped on one of the roots of the tree. She had advanced the few steps to bring down her knees at either side of his waist, palm on his chest. Droplets of water dripped from her hair, cold pinpricks at Tyrion’s temple. 

She had gone mad, he thought.

 _Blood splattered all over the solar. That hand smudged with dirt, blood dripping down._

The palm pressing down at his chest, shifted up, covering his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise.

She would kill him.

But her free hand darted between her legs as her expression took on a furious intensity. It was so quiet he heard her soft exhale. He stared breathlessly, keenly aware of her hand over his mouth, and the near instantaneous flare of arousal at the display.

Tyrion was rooted to the spot, wavering between confusion, excitement and cold fear. He stared raptly at the curve of her neck, was hypnotized by the beads of water trailing down from her breasts to her stomach. 

_Blood dripping down her hands. Black against the white of her arms. Blood splattered on the walls._

She came with a cutting intake of breath. If it weren’t for that last image, he was sure he could have too.

As it was he’d begun to realize his breeches were wet. Still with her thighs splayed above him, Sansa reached for his cock. He squirmed, feeling as if he were waking up from a bizarre dream, and attempted to call her to her senses only to have two fingers shoved into his mouth. Panicked, he bit her and clawed at her thighs. He was rewarded by a grip around his cock that bordered painful. He stilled at the implicit warning and tried to meet her gaze. 

Tyrion looked for cruelty in her eyes, vengeance, pity, even a twisted form of supplication, but could read nothing. 

Sansa shifted her weight off his stomach, slid back, lowering herself onto him, bracing herself on a hand she’d pressed on the ground. He nearly bit her again at the sensation of being inside her, reminded that it had been months since he’d had a woman. Instead, he sucked hard at her fingers, wishing he could taste her on them. 

Even that thought flitted away as she rolled her hips, breaths coming faster, eyes shut. He struggled not to think too much about the fact that he was fucking Sansa Stark. Above him the heart tree’s trunk seemed to go on forever. It’s mouth seemed twisted mockingly, as if to say, no, to be precise Sansa Stark was fucking _him_ , and the orgasm ripped through him like quicksilver. He couldn’t get breath to his lungs fast enough and next thing he knew, he’d rolled away from her and onto his stomach in a fit of coughing. 

Once he’d managed to get his coughing under control. Tyrion stood and laced himself up, his back to her. Sansa Stark had lost her mind, he contemplated. Now he had to enlist discretion in procuring moon tea. 

The irony was not lost on him.


End file.
